


Fumbling towards ecstasy

by Ophelia_Raine



Series: An Anthology of Kisses [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adultery, F/M, Gentle Kissing, Hurt/Comfort, May/December Relationship, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rough Kissing, Smut, Surprise Kissing, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-16 22:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14819667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: During the after-party of the grand wedding between Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell, things go bump in the night at Casterly Rock.This fic is a result of a prompt by Jonarya, who chose #58 and #70 out of a list of76 kissing prompts.





	1. The Library

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jonarya786](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonarya786/gifts).



_It’s done._

Sansa shut the door behind her so very slowly, so very quietly, feeling with her hands in the dark until she heard the telltale click as the barrel slipped into the recess of the door frame. She left the lights off, naturally, but the curtains to the only window in the room were parted and girdled, leaving the full moon to shine right in and illuminate the books stacked tight on the floor-to-ceiling shelves of Lord Tywin’s library.

_Finally_. It had been a tedious sort of day. Quite the balancing act to appear secretly jealous, heartbroken, and mortified while reassuring everyone she met that she was thrilled for the groom and his new bride, that she wished Joffrey and Margaery every success. A long life together. Many babies. An heir.  

A most tedious sort of day, where prying women would pull her aside and click their tongues in faked sympathy, their thinly plucked eyebrows furrowed. “How do you _really_ feel, dear?” they’d say. “Your bosom friend, marrying your intended! And so soon! Just awful!” 

And then they’d wait while she raised her eyes and tried to summon the tears while keeping them bravely at bay, before finally whispering with a tiny tremble in her voice, “Oh no, Lady So-and-So… It’s not like that at all. Truly, I’m happy that my two dearest friends have found each other.”

The trick was to sound sincere while appearing to lie badly, all while maintaining the true deception of her heartfelt sentiments. 

They deserved each other. And in stealing Joffrey from under her very nose, Lady Margaery Tyrell had bestowed upon her oldest chum the gift she most desired. Freedom from that monster! No more surreptitious pinching. Of yanking her hair so hard until bunches would come away in his grabby, cruel hands and tears would spring to her eyes. No more lacerations on her back, her buttocks, her breasts. His viciousness to her knew no bounds. In that, Joffrey really was his mother’s son. And the more Sansa cowed and acquiesced to his every desire, the deeper his cruelty ran. He actually  _thrived_ on it. Waited for it. Relished it.  

But no more. It was done. He was wholly Margaery’s concern now, and the bitch deserved whatever would most likely confront her in her marriage. He would tire of her, of that Sansa was most certain. Joffrey had an attention span of a wasp, and a heart that was blacker than a raven’s wing. 

Something bubbled deep within her now and she covered her mouth to stifle the gurgle as it reached her throat. She swallowed, but it came back up until she could hold it in no more. 

Sansa Stark finally laughed. The sound was an eruption, sudden and untimed. She cupped her hands over her mouth in horror, eyes darting immediately towards the light under the door. She waited for footsteps, even while her body started to convulse in barely concealed delight. 

She was free. _Finally._

“Congratulations,” someone drawled in the shadows and it took all of Sansa’s self-preservation not to jump at the sound and scream.  

Sansa trained her eyes to the corner of the room wherefrom that disembodied baritone came. And then she saw him, ensconced in Tywin's armchair. In the moonlight, she could barely make out his form. He sat with one leg crossed, ankle on knee. But she knew that voice well enough to picture the smirk on his face that he was probably wearing now. 

A flicker of light and the unmistakable sound of an ignitor before the smell of burning tobacco and menthol curled and drifted over. Tywin Lannister’s accountant, Petyr Baelish, leaned forward in his chair now. Moonlight swept across his face in the movement, bringing his angled cheekbones into sharp relief.  

“I didn’t think anyone else was here,” Sansa blurted out.  

“Well, I’m not here. Are you here?” 

A beat. Sansa shook her head. “I’m not supposed to be here.” 

“Neither am I.” He smiled then, showing his teeth. And Sansa did not think it mocking or unkind. Which only made her confused. 

“I should go.” 

“Best to wait awhile, sweetling. Take the time to compose yourself. Have your laugh, find your escape here in the shadows. And then return to the madding crowd and put your kicked-puppy face back on.” 

Sansa stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Oh,” Petyr replied, “but I think you do.” 

She watched as he took another slow drag of his cigarette before blowing out slowly. It was almost meditative to watch him, the slow inhale and the deliberate exhale. It forced her, strangely enough, to breathe more normally. Sansa felt her body calm down. 

And then he split her world wide open.  

“They’re not going to let you go, you know.”  

“What?” Sansa whispered, even as a deadweight within her gut started to form. 

“The Lannisters. You think this marriage buys your passage home? They’re not going to let you go, Sansa.” 

“You don’t know that! They promised me. _They promised me!_ ” But even as the words left her mouth, she knew. She _knew._

Petyr Baelish actually looked sorrowful now. “Sansa… take a look around you. We’re all liars here. And everyone of us is better than you. Do you think the Lannisters truly bought your pantomime today? Heartbroken Sansa…” The words should cut, but his eyes were sad.  

“Sansa… they’ll not lose you. They’d be fools to let you go. And they are many things but even impetuous Cersei on her most intoxicated night is no fool.” 

Her legs felt like wood. Like lead. “What will they do to me?” she heard herself whisper. 

“Tommen.” A pause, and then with greater reluctance, “Maybe Tyrion.” And Sansa’s heart twisted in anguish and horror. The Imp? No, _NO!_

And the laughter that had bubbled over before now tasted like ash in her mouth. Tears welled up in her eyes now. Sansa shook her head as if she could wake herself. 

“No…” Her voice cracked. “I can’t… I can’t…” 

And then he was standing beside her now, arms wrapped tight around her delicate frame so her head was now on his shoulder. He pulled her close, one hand rubbing her back slowly as if to calm a hysterical child even though she was perfectly still. She felt her tears loosen, then drop. Great big tears that rolled down her cheeks freely and soaked into his blazer. She felt his grip tighten, and she found herself burying her face in his neck as she gulped down her sobs. 

“Sweetling…” he crooned. “Sweet, sweet Sansa… precious one.” And then, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him, “I won’t let them.” 

And like the fog, her dark, gasping despair suddenly thinned. “What?” 

“I won’t let them…” Petyr drew in a breath and Sansa felt it shudder in his chest. “They’ve had their fun. Enough is enough.” 

Sansa drew her face from his neck now to stare at him. 

“Do you really mean that?” It was a question brimming with hope and despair. 

“I’ll not lie to you, sweetling.” He brushed a wayward curl, now wet with her tears, from her face. She felt him tuck it gently behind her ear before his lips followed the movement, pressing on her temple. 

It was the most tenderness she had ever received in all her years at King’s Landing.  

Sansa turned her head suddenly, meeting his lips impetuously with her own grateful ones. She felt him freeze. 

And then his hand was on her face, gently cradling her cheek as he pressed his lips back on hers. The scent of his cigarette curled around her nose and instead of revolting her, it only served to spur her on. 

Something within her sparked for the first time in forever. And suddenly she needed to know that he was hers, that his allegiance was true, that she did not just trade a lie for an even greater deception. She deepened the kiss, slipping an arm around his back now. Their lips were still closed, but as she slowly tilted her head, she heard him groan. 

And for a moment, it felt like he was waiting for something. Divine intervention, perhaps.  

And in finding none, his lips parted in a sigh. She opened her mouth and drew him in, the brackish, bitter taste of smoke doing little to dull her own mounting passion as she sought to match him, tongue for wandering tongue. He groaned in her fumbling attempt, though it did not sound at all like a complaint. She, in turn, heard a noise escape the back of her own throat before his mouth captured and muted the tone.  

She felt him taste her and then, as if he’d found his opiate, his hunger swept over as he plunged her mouth and devoured her. She felt his hands sweep down the length of her back until they settled low on her waist. Her dress bunched tight in his hands, two wads of barely repressed desire.   

She realised then that she had always wanted him to want her. And now that he did, she found she wanted _him_. 

It was she, then, who broke the kiss suddenly. There was a moment of uncertainty now, as Petyr stared at her as if still in a daze. She wondered if he would decide to come to his senses. That his careful, calculative, self-serving nature would reassert itself. 

She did not want him to think too hard. She leaned in and placed a chaste kiss in the hollow of his neck, just behind his ear. 

“Sansa…” he hissed, and then he was carving a trail of blazing kisses down the length of her throat. She felt herself being walked back into the armchair from whence he materialised earlier, felt them both slip into the shadows. And then he was in the chair, and she had dropped heavily into his lap. 

“Sansa…” she heard him again, and this time it sounded a little like a prayer. She was raining tiny kisses on his face now, her knees indecently astride his hips, her body raised up so she towered over him. A position of power over a man. She had never experienced that before. It was a gift, truly.  

She felt him raise her dress together with her slip, even as her hands cupped his face and drank him thirstily. He was hard under her, a solid and reassuring length. She felt him through the silk of her drawers and a dewy heaviness bloomed down low. 

She brushed her hand across the fine wool of his pants and felt him in jerk in response. A genuine smile, her very first of the evening, of the month, of the year stretched across her face slowly. With shaking, clumsy hands, she felt around for the fastenings. 

“Sansa…” And this time, his voice was hoarse and tinged with something that sounded almost like fear. “Are you sure?” 

She closed her eyes. When she opened her mouth, there was nothing but a harsh, cold frankness. “Joffrey took everything from me.” She opened her eyes and stared into his, driving her point home. “ _Everything._ ” 

A sharp intake of breath as comprehension lit his eyes. And then she watched as something akin to fury tightened the corners of his face. She felt her heart soften. To finally have someone enraged on her behalf, to feel his burning indignation for her own sake… She lowered her head once more and kissed him softly, her eyelids fluttering close as she breathed him in.  

And then her hand snaked down, granting him wordless permission as she undid the snap crotch of her drawers before she ground herself into his length. She opened her eyes so she could watch his own slide close.  

Things happened quickly then. She felt his own hands dive down to free his length, before she felt the press of his thumb on her front. He swallowed her cry as he rubbed her out, slow and steady at first and then quickening so she raised her legs on her knees, felt them trembling weakly as he stoked her desire to fever point. Belatedly, she remembered his own neglected member and soon set to work, eager to reciprocate such wonderful sensations. She felt his rhythm stutter when her hands reached down and wrap around his length. She stroked him firmly, and knew she was getting the better of his control when his thumb started to brush against her nub of nerves in a frenzy.  

“Please!” she whined, aching for fullness within her to complement the hollow cresting. “Mr Baelish—“ 

“ _Just_ Petyr!” 

“Please!” she heard herself beg. “Petyr…” And it was then that he finally obliged her, sating them both when he adjusted himself so he fed into her filmy entrance before finally pulling her hips towards him, ramming up and into her. 

They stayed like this for a fraction of time, neither quite believing that the deed had been done. And then they started moving, building a rhythm that was animalistic and natural and wildly beautiful. 

The chair creaked and groaned, unused to the stress and the weight — but neither of them cared. Tomorrow, perhaps, there might have to be a reckoning when Lord Tywin finally re-enters his inner sanctum only to find his favourite chair soiled, debauched and quite possibly broken. But for now, their passions mounted — each thrust, each grind a search for release that both of them were only too desperate to give the other and in doing so, reach their own exquisite bliss. 

She had never known it, of course. The climax, the apex, the mythical creature that Margaery had whispered about but that had always eluded Sansa — she the giver, never the blessed. But now, she finally understood as her body started to clench helplessly around his hard, relentless length, his fingers flying over her sensitive pearl still. Sansa felt her breath deepen, her chest heave as a glorious warmth started to spread within her before the wave suddenly pounded against the shore. 

She threw her head back, body frozen as an overwhelming rapture swept right through her. It took everything not to cry out, her teeth biting hard onto her lower lip as she trembled and trembled. 

She felt Petyr push her off right then at the last, and her eyes snapped open. Petyr pulled out just in time before spending his heated seed on her naked thigh.  

They stared at each other, still panting slightly, still dazed at the evolution of events. Doubt and fear started to creep back into her heart now. What was she thinking? More importantly — what was _he_ thinking now?  

Had he finally gotten his way with her? Had she spent the only trump card she had? 

He stretched his neck suddenly, as if gleaning her thoughts like maize in an open field. His lips caught hers and he kissed her truly, sweetly, deeply.  

“I won’t let them,” he promised her. “I won’t let them, precious one. My sweetling." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo... I thought I'd write about a sweet smooch and not, you know, half a story and full-on nookie.
> 
> Whoops.
> 
> #70: Starting With A Kiss Meant To Be Gentle, Ending Up In Passion


	2. The Lion's Den

_Can’t wait to fuck you good and proper,_ her brand new husband had promised. Lady Margaery _née_ Tyrell — now the newly-minted Duchess of Stormlands — rolled her eyes as she gazed at the slack-jawed sleeping form of her young Lord Husband now. Joffrey snored, the night’s revels finally taking a toll on him. And to be fair, Margaery herself had counted on it. Lord Tywin's footmen had been most attentive with the wine, always diligent in keeping the groom’s glass full to overflowing while Margaery had maintained every appearance of just as much merriment as her new husband, at a fraction of the cost to her intellect and purpose. 

She stripped the rest of him now, careful to cast his clothes and hers about the room as if they had gone at it hell-for-leather. In truth, all she had done tonight was to mouth his cock before he’d fallen dead asleep. He'd been so drunk by then, the miserable little thing could barely hold any stiffness, much less conjure an heir. She had finished him off by hand, careful to smear his body with his own sticky seed so that when he should finally awake and feel the tackiness on his skin, the streaks of chicken’s blood on the sheets… even, Margaery grimaced, a smudge of chicken on his cock... he would draw his own conclusions. She will help him along, of course. _You were an animal,_  she’d tease and let him decide which one. _Bed your wife again, please. I cannot get enough of you et cetera et cetera._

But now she was slipping out of bed quietly, quietly. Her silk robe lay waiting on the damask chair, her lamb’s wool slippers soft and silent on the polished wooden floor, almost slippery when it transitioned to marble. The air chilled her to the bone as she closed the door of her husband’s bedchamber behind her, as she stole across from the far east wing into the south. Past now the drunken murmur of men below who had long overstayed their welcome and were presently frittering away their fortunes to the grasping and the shrewd. Past now the bedchamber of her new mother-in-law, the Dowager Duchess Cersei Baratheon, whose candles and gas lights were off, whose telltale cries of pain or pleasure nevertheless slipped like will-o-’the-wisps from the narrow gap beneath her door. Margaery felt a tightening and a familiar heaviness descend to her own loins at the sounds but pressed on to the goal nonetheless. 

Margaery crossed into the south, her footsteps quickening, her heart starting to race. Past now the library where the Duke of Casterly Rock would smoke his pipe as he gazed upon his immense undulating park and garden, the intricate labyrinth at its heart, the small River Glyme snaking through its periphery, the vast kingdom that lay beyond it. Past now the boudoir of the late Duchess of Casterly Rock, her memory locked and enshrined and never, ever surpassed. 

And then she was here. She raised her hand, pressed it to the door and whispered his name. 

“Tywin.”  

She waited, five, six long breaths before she ran her fingers through her hair in exasperation.  

_“Tywin!"_

Movement behind the door and even in the dark, she could feel him as he approached. A corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. 

The barrel of the door slipped out from its recess with a metallic click before swinging open so suddenly that Margaery almost fell in. She collected herself and craned her neck to meet the glare of the Old Lion himself. 

“You have some nerve,” he growled. 

 And before she could ask if he would at least let her in because it was freezing in the corridors, she felt his hand grip ‘round her arm before he yanked her into his room firmly.  

Tywin half-dragged her a quarter way into his bedchamber as her eyes adjusted to the light. She heard the door close behind her with a measure of finality. And then Lord Tywin Lannister, Duke of Casterly Rock, was upon her, his eyes narrowed and displeased, his lips thinned in grim annoyance. 

“Well?” 

“Well what. I did say I might find the time.” Margaery tossed her hair back and willed herself to muster the insouciance she did not quite feel. 

“And did I not say what a terrible idea that would be? It is almost a quarter past three,” he added witheringly, “of your _wedding night_." 

“And yet you are awake, Tywin.” The smile in the corner of her mouth returned then. She knew she had him, even if he were never to admit it. She knew he wouldn’t. 

He took a menacing step forward and Margaery told herself to hold her ground. She would not be intimidated. She would not shrink back. She held his gaze steadily. 

“My being awake…” he replied, voice suddenly lower, silkier,  “has nothing to do with _you_ … granddaughter.” 

_Oh!_ Margaery felt her knees buckle right then.  

“What did you just call me?” 

“We are related by marriage now, are we not?” Tywin smiled at her with his teeth, like a predator. He leaned down. _"Granddaughter.”_   

She felt all the air leave the room, her breathing shallowing to a stop. 

“Granddaughter-in-law,” she managed to correct weakly. But she felt the word as it dripped like warm nectar and coated her sex.  

Tywin raised an eyebrow at her pedantry and took another slow step forward. She felt his breath brush her forehead, and yet there was still the tiniest gap between them… 

“It would be,” he growled through gritted teeth, “ _inappropriate_ in the extreme should we find ourselves… _behaving_ as before.” 

His eyes were almost narrowed to slits now, but she could see the dangerous glint in his eyes, the golden flecks against the green accentuated by the fire in his room. The marked rise and fall of his chest mirrored her own. Beneath the vee of his robe, Margaery could almost make out his silvery gold mat of hair. 

She reached out now to brush the top of it softly with her fingertips, and heard the sharp intake of breath. 

“Oh Tywin,” she purred, flicking her eyes up in challenge, “we most certainly were not _behaving_ before.” 

His mouth came down then, crushing her lips with a hunger and savagery that made her legs sag against him. She heard herself moan as she surrendered instantly, her tongue sliding over his teeth, her hands reaching behind him to cling tight to his robe lest she slide to the ground. She felt him grip her hair, another hand on her back clenching her silk so tight, she wondered if he would actually rip it right off her. He plundered her mouth mercilessly, the friction of shorter hairs on his face adding a delicious rawness that served only to heighten her relentless desire for him.  

She was moving him now, half-blindly across the room. They struck a table, the wood hitting her hip so she cried out into his mouth and he cursed. Still she clung to him, drawing his mouth to hers, coaxing his tongue to exact its claim. He groaned at her greed, at her naked need for him as their feet moved awkwardly across the room once more, neither of them quite understanding the dance nor the steps as they stumbled once, twice.   

The trouble when each of them must insist on taking the lead.  

Her hands were on his chest now, desperately pulling his robe apart. She fumbled at the knot at his waist and almost screamed in frustration as she tugged and tugged, only to find the knot tightening instead. 

She heard the rumble, a deep laugh at her tantrum. And then in one fluid motion, Tywin divested Margaery of her belt and her robe. She felt the silk slither down her body, and she worked her arms to shrug the rest of it off in barely-concealed desperation. 

“Impatience,” he rumbled into her mouth, and then Tywin took control, lifting her suddenly so her legs now wrapped around his waist. She felt him turn and ere she could find her own bearings, he had her pressed up high against a wall. 

Oh, but she could feel him properly now. He ground his hardness into the softness between her legs once, twice. And then his lips, his mouth, his teeth, his tongue found her neck so he nipped and pulled and sucked. She moaned again, before belatedly cutting herself short by biting her lip. It was not enough, _it was never enough!_ But then he pulled aside the thick lace strap of her night clothes, freeing a breast that he now laved lazily like a cat, rolling a nipple between his tongue and teeth. Margaery’s breath hitched before her insides turned to molten liquid, and her hips now sought a rhythm, a friction against his own. 

Her hands reached into what was left of his hair on his pate and she felt him cease at her urging. He looked up at her now and even before she could form the words, he groaned.  

“Fuck.” 

“Yes, rather,” she gasped in return, her words barely making sense, her arms, her hands scrabbling at the wall behind her. “The bed! The bed!"  

Her leg gripped around his waist tightly now, just as he pulled her away from the wall. And like a perfectly executed waltz, he twirled them both around before she landed heavily on his tall, broad bed. 

He was undoing that stubborn knot at his waist now, the one she had made a complete hash of in her earlier haste. Margaery wriggled free of her night clothes, tugging her silk knickers down before kicking it off with her toe. She watched Tywin hungrily as he methodically disrobed. It charmed her thoroughly to see how very ready he was for her, his long, thick cock bobbing free and glistening in anticipation of _her._

_What a difference between the two bedchambers,_ she thought. 

Grabbing each of her ankles, Tywin pulled her to the edge of the bed easily, and she watched with trembling anticipation as he inserted two fingers deep into his mouth, sucking them off with slow deliberation before he fed one into her sex, slipping his middle finger into her slickness until he was knuckle-deep. She threw an arm around her mouth to stifle a moan as he worked her, slow and steady at first and then harder and harder again, and harder still. Somewhere along the way, he had added its companion whereupon he truly showed no mercy then. Deep and hard and persistently he curled and flicked and thrusted until she sobbed, until she cried, until she shivered and shook in spite of herself. 

And then he was inside her, his long, thick shaft marking its entrance like a battering ram of old. Over and over he pushed into her, hitting the very depths of her body, her soul. She marked his neck, his shoulder, his chest in her own frenzy, wanting nothing more than to taste him, to melt into his skin. And then she was clinging onto his back, her arms wrapped tight around his waist, her every inch of skin against his own. Together, she felt as their movements slowed right down until all that remained were the very barest of necessities for pleasure — the repetitive jerk of his hips into hers as she softly called his name. 

When she came, there were actual tears most befitting of a newly deflowered bride, she thought. She closed her eyes and saw the sparks light up behind her lids and knew, as she’d always known, how much she truly loved this man. Not that she’d ever tell him.   

“Spend your seed inside me, darling,” she murmured into his ear. Gently now, coaxing. “Release yourself… fill me.” He looked down at her, a slightly manic look in his eye the only signal she’d learned some time ago to mean that he was so very close.  

“I’ve brought my special herbs along,” she crooned. And for the final encouragement, her mouth tipped up into an irrepressible grin as she breathed, “Come now, grandpa.” And then she threw her head back and stifled her giggles as he came with a hard shudder, gasping a noise she’d never heard pass his lips before. 

Wicked, _wicked_  Lady Margaery Baratheon.  

When all had been said and done, he spanked her for the mischief and then held her tight until they both witnessed the dawn break. 

And then she retreaded her footsteps in the night, down past the late Joanna Lannister’s boudoir, his library… past the Dowager’s bedroom where two different snores could be heard… past the landing where poor stupid men had been made poorer and stupider still… past, past it all until Margaery crawled back into her marital bed, naked and suitably debauched, her own thighs, her cunt tacky from vigorous use. 

As the sun crept into the bedchamber of her young Lord Husband, still sound asleep, Margaery whispered her Lion’s name, feeling her own bee-stung lips and wishing many, many things.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO... that also came out a little different to what I'd initially planned. Considering I NEVER write about Daddykink, this is... surprising for me. :D
> 
> #58: Moving Around While Kissing, Stumbling Over Things, Pushing Each Other Back Against The Wall/Onto The Bed


End file.
